


Wandered Here From Far Away

by Brenda



Series: Came Back Haunted [3]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bearded Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Is Not Your Damsel, Domestic Bliss, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, Past Violence, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, Self-Discovery, Slow Dancing, Steve Rogers Has Issues, The Road To Happiness Isn't Always A Straight Path, mention of past torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 08:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11287932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: "You can’t fix the past...you can only search for the strength to change the future."- Bucky Barnes,Winter Soldier v4: The Electric GhostRecovery isn't linear, and moving on from the past isn't easy, even with your best friend and soulmate by your side. But, for Steve and Bucky, as long as they have each other, it's all worth it.





	1. (Part I - "I'm Following Him")

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lucidnancyboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucidnancyboy/gifts), [Coolwhipdiva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coolwhipdiva/gifts).



> Thank you thank you THANK YOU a million times over to the amazingly talented and just generally awesome [Jessie Lucid (lucidnancyboy)](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/), who was the best artist/partner I could have ever imagined. Their art is just...WOW. I'm seriously in awe. (Art is embedded in the body of the story.) 
> 
> And second, Happy (early) Birthday to Coolwhipdiva - thank you for the gift of your friendship, and for that fateful trip to Sonoma 2 years ago that sparked this series. :)

Most nights, Steve still woke up well before dawn: his heart hammering against his ribs, his hands clenched tight into fists at his sides, and with the sour tang of sweat lingering in the air. Some nights, he could feel the vicious bite of the frost sticking to his skin, hear the groan of bending steel as the Valkyrie hit the ice, his limbs numbing as the cabin filled with frigid water. Other nights, he woke to the echo of pitiful screams in his ears, his hands slippery with blood, the coppery-rust taste palpable on his tongue. Sometimes, Peggy was in his arms, deceptively delicate and yet still strong enough to fell men twice her size, swaying with him to a beat he couldn't hear, no matter how hard he tried. Less often, it was his mother's voice softly crooning Irish lullabies as she rocked him to sleep, the faint scent of her perfume — lemon verbena and rosewater — clinging to her clothes. 

Almost every night, Bucky slept on beside him, breaths even, face smooth, curled close and warm, offering shelter from the raging storm of Steve's thoughts with his body. Shelter Steve willingly accepted and embraced, even though he always felt guilty for doing so. Bucky had enough burdens to deal with; he didn't need to bear the brunt of Steve's as well. Not when Steve knew, better than anyone, that Bucky still had nightmares himself. That he still struggled with the horrific acts he'd committed, and the weapon he used to be. 

But somehow, Bucky'd managed to deal with the sordid, dark deeds of his past with a grace that was as awe-inspiring to witness as it was humbling. Bucky saw vibrancy and color in the world, greeted each new day like a promise, with hope and gratitude, and a joy that was infectious. Steve was still valiantly trying his best to reach the high bar Bucky'd set on how to manage his anxieties and fears, just like the high bar Bucky had always set in every other aspect of their lives. And _just_ like he always had, Steve failed, stumbling right out of the gate and unable to make up ground.

He had no idea why he bothered; trying to live up to Bucky's standards was a losing proposition at best. Steve could live another hundred years and it wouldn't matter — nothing he did from here on out would ever make up for what he'd failed to do. He knew Bucky didn't see it that way, knew that Bucky didn't blame him or bear any judgement on him, but in the dark hours before the sun rose, the bright rays warming their bedroom and chasing away ancient ghosts, it was hard to fathom why Bucky had fought so hard to get Steve to stay with him. Why he wanted Steve, with all of his anger and fury and the short temper he'd never outgrown, in this place of peace and rebirth. 

It was only a matter of time before Bucky figured out what Steve had always known — that he was damaged goods, doomed to disappoint everyone he'd ever loved. All his life, he'd struggled and railed and clawed his way out of the pit of self-doubt and guilt, only to jump feet-first back into it at every available opportunity, like the hypocrite he was. And when Bucky realized that he didn't need to drag himself down along with Steve, that he could be with somebody better, someone _worthy_ of the good man Bucky had always been, Steve would do the honorable thing and bow out without argument or regret. Bucky deserved the best. Something Steve would never be.

If Steve truly was half the hero and good man everyone thought he was, he'd slink back into the shadows before he irrevocably tainted what Bucky was trying to build here in Glen Ellen. But, in this, as in everything else where Bucky was concerned, Steve lacked the strength to walk away. He would happily sit at Bucky's feet like a dog begging for scraps and soak in the warmth of his smile, hoarding every caress and every kiss for the day when his reckoning would come and he was cast back out into the cold. 

***

_Steve set his overnight bag down on the floor, his orders clutched tightly in his right fist, and mentally steeled himself for the difficult conversation ahead. Doc Erskine had given him twenty-four hours to get his affairs in order before reporting to his induction station, and he'd used most of the time to pack up his few meager belongings and let his boss at the Eagle know he was shipping out. It was cowardly, he knew, to wait until the very last minute to see Winnifred and the girls, but it had taken him that long to figure out what he was going to say._

_He knocked sharply on the door, and Winnifred answered, her sunny smile of welcome morphing into concern once she got a look at him and the bag sitting at his feet. "I'm just going to take a guess and say you found someone foolish enough to take you," she said, by way of greeting._

_"Uh, yeah." He swiped his bangs out of his eyes and stepped over the threshold into the living room, bag in tow. The girls all looked up from their embroidery, their faces matching their mother's to an almost frightening degree. Maybe doing this while Mr. Barnes was still at work hadn't been the best idea._

_"Where are you going?" Becca asked, with a suspicious frown._

_"Yeah, why d'you have a bag? Your landlord kick you out already?" Al started to rise from her seat, like she was ready to march up the block to give Mr. Delgado a piece of her mind._

_"No, uh, nothing like that." Steve cleared a very dry throat. "Uh, so, I might've done something a little...uh, well, see...it's like this…"_

_"Lemme guess, you did something rash?" Al asked, raising an eyebrow. "Foolish?"_

_"Stupid, just like always?" Grace continued, unimpressed._

_"C'mon, Gracie, I'm not that bad," Steve said, with his best winsome smile. Truth be told, he'd rather face down Colonel Phillips' unimpressed stare again than the Barnes women, but he couldn't just leave for Camp Lehigh without letting them know where he was headed. They were the only family he had left. "But, I, uh, may have enlisted? In the Army?"_

_Grace's eyebrows climbed up to her hairline. "Well, I know you're too skint to bribe a doc to give you a 1-A, so how'd you manage that?"_

_"Did you steal someone else's orders?" Becca asked, her frown getting even bigger._

_"Jeez, Becca, no, of course not!" Steve protested, with an offended snort. "And I didn't_ bribe _anyone, either. It's, um, they need me for a new unit. Top secret," he added, like that would somehow forestall the million questions he could see Becca was just dying to ask._

_"Oh Steve," Winnifred sighed, worrying her handkerchief between her hands. "Is it safe?"_

_He wanted to lie to her, he really did. She had enough to worry about with Buck, but, well, he couldn't. His own ma, God rest her soul, would come from the grave and smack him clean upside the head if he tried, he just knew it._

_He coughed, and glanced down at his shoes, old and scuffed and too big for his feet. "Well, I'll be joining the front, so...no, probably not."_

_She sighed again, and patted the collar of his jacket, smoothing the material. "I guess I can't say I'm too surprised you found a way to join Bucky. You two've always been joined at the hip since the day you were born."_

_Becca stood and crossed the room to pull him into a tight hug. "You'll write, won't you?"_

_"Of course, I will," Steve said, hugging her back for all he was worth. "You bet. But you can't tell Buck about this, not yet." Not until Steve had at least made it through Basic, and was chosen for whatever special program the Colonel and Doc had cooking up._

 _"Oh, we won't say a word," Al assured him, when he and Becca parted. "_ You _will."_

_Steve was already shaking his head before she even finished speaking. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Al."_

_"Like you could keep a secret from him," Grace scoffed, unimpressed. "You're forgetting you never could lie to him, or anyone, else worth a damn."_

_"Grace Elizabeth Barnes, watch your language!"_

_She shrugged, but didn't look especially repentant, even in the face of her mother's stern glare. "Sorry, Ma."_

_"_ Li-ar _," Becca said in a sing-song voice, and got whacked on the arm for her trouble. Steve hid his smile by coughing into his hand._

_"Ignore them," Al said, and wrapped her arms around Steve for a long embrace. "Don't do anything stupid like get yourself killed, you hear me."_

_He pressed a kiss to her cheek, and held her close, his bright, beautiful sister in everything but blood. "I'll do my best."_

_"See that you do."_

_Winnifred's hug was also solid, warm, soothed skittish nerves. "Be careful, Stevie. Write when you can, but more importantly, you come back home to us."_

_"I will," Steve promised, as certain of it as he was his own name. He was going to make a difference, make his family proud, and he'd keep Bucky safe until the War was over and they were free to come home where they belonged. "I'll make sure we both do."_

***

Steve hopped out of the passenger seat of the truck, following Bucky into Glen Ellen Market, matching Bucky's long-legged stride with his own. "I just think we could spring for a better truck is all," he said, continuing the argument they'd started back at the house. "It's not like back when we were young and broke as hell, we've got the money for something better now."

"I happen to _like_ the truck we have," Bucky argued, with that stubborn tilt to his jaw that Steve would know anywhere, in any time. 

"C'mon, Buck, it's a rusted out hunk of —"

Bucky jabbed a finger as he stalked by Steve, both of them ignoring the other shoppers in the aisles. "One more word and you'll be walking home."

As far as threats went, it was pretty tame, but a change in tactics was probably a good idea, just in case. "It's just...we'd have a lot more time for other projects if we didn't have to tinker with the truck so much," Steve wheedled, not above a little bit of bribery if it got him what he wanted. "At least tell me you'll think about it."

"Maybe after we put the sunroof in the bedroom, I'll consider it," Bucky replied, thankfully slowing down. " _And_ the back deck extension."

Steve bit back the argument that was on the tip of his tongue, and nodded. Compromise, he reminded himself. The hallmark of a good relationship, so Bucky's dad used to tell them, and seeing as how Steve had never heard Mr. or Mrs. Barnes raise their voices to each other, there was probably something to it. 

"Fine, we do the sunroof and back deck first," he conceded, even though he couldn't help the eyeroll. Thankfully, Bucky wasn't looking his way. "You drive a hard bargain."

Bucky wheeled around to yank Steve flush against his body, all hard muscle and heat. His smirk was wide, playful, and revved Steve up with an ease that would have been embarrassing if Steve gave a shit about things like that. "A bargain's not the only thing I drive that's hard."

Steve groaned, earlier pique forgotten as he shivered all over from the way Bucky was pressed tight against him. "That's officially the worst joke ever."

"Nah." Bucky's kiss was hard, hot, ended with a nip on Steve's bottom lip, and when he pulled back, his grin was smugly pleased. "You _love_ all my jokes."

What Steve loved was that Bucky _made_ them now. What Steve loved was being able to watch Bucky come into his own a little more, day by day discovering the person he was now — different than the way he used to be, but still the good man and generous person he'd always been. Still a charmer and a deal-maker, even if the execution of it was a little different these days. Still better than anything Steve had a right to ask for.

Bucky smoothed out the space between Steve's eyebrows, his smile dimming. "You're looking way too serious for a man who should be thinking about how to respond to the perfect sex joke." 

Steve chuckled, and pressed a kiss to Bucky's unshaven cheek, the bristles catching on his lips. " _Sex_ with you is perfect," he corrected. "Your sex jokes, on the other hand, need so much help."

"You'll come around," Bucky stated, confident (and rightfully so) in his own powers of persuasion, and tucked his fingers in the loops of Steve's waistband to pull him towards the canned goods in the back of the store. Not that Steve needed much urging to follow Bucky's lead.

Melissa, their regular cashier, greeted them both with a smile when they stepped up to the register, their arms laden with all the necessary ingredients for homemade phở and mì Quảng (Bucky'd been on a Vietnamese food kick lately), as well as four pieces of coffee cake, because _someone_ was an addict, not that Steve was naming names. 

"Gotta say, I'm disappointed," she lamented with an exaggerated sigh, as they set everything down on the conveyor belt. 

Steve blinked in confusion, and looked at Bucky, who also shrugged. "Disappointed?" Bucky asked.

Melissa nodded, deftly ringing up every item without even looking at the scanner or the register. "Pretty much the only perk I have at this job is getting to see you two come in every morning all sweaty, and wearing short shorts and stretchy tank tops, so, yeah, the jeans are a little disappointing. Not that you don't wear them well or anything."

The tips of Steve's ears turned pink. He'd never given much thought to how he and Bucky were dressed most of the time when they raced in through the doors, breathless and laughing and, more often than not, giving the other one way too much shit for losing. "Uh, sorry?"

"Oh my God, I was joking, and now you're...oh man, I just —" She swore under her breath. "It was a joke and now you're blushing, and I made you uncomfortable and my big mouth, I swear, it's going to get me fired, I'm sorry, I _really_ didn't mean to make you feel —"

"Hey, it's fine, I promise," Bucky said, nudging Steve with his elbow, his own look relaxed and amused. "Steve always stammers when a pretty girl compliments him. And it's not like you're wrong about the way he wears a pair of shorts."

Steve's blush intensified ten-fold. The brown-speckled pattern of the linoleum floor was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. " _Buck_ , c'mon, man —"

"What, you've got nice legs." Bucky shrugged, unconcerned with Steve's embarrassment. "I think I'm allowed to appreciate them."

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Of _course_ you are, that's not the point —"

Melissa waved a hand between them. "Wait a minute, I thought...didn't you tell me a few weeks ago that you two weren't together like that?"

"Oh, right." Steve could practically _feel_ the flush making its way down his neck to spread across his collarbones. He was never going to be able to look Melissa in the eye again. He might never be able to step foot into Glen Ellen Market again, either. Shame, too, because the coffee cake really was amazing. "That, uh...we may have sort of…um..."

Bucky sighed, long-suffering and affectionate, and reeled Steve in for a quick close-mouthed kiss. Chaste and light, but unmistakably _not_ platonic. "What Stevie here is trying oh-so-eloquently to say is, we finally figured out what you'd already figured out, so thanks for getting the train rolling."

"Me?" She transferred the finger to herself, eyes widening. "What'd _I_ do?"

"Pointed me in the right direction, although right now, I'm regretting the hell out of it," Steve replied, and gave Bucky a stern look. "So would you stop trying to make me blush already?"

"Yeah, that's never going to happen," Bucky replied, with a sunny smile. "It's way too cute." 

"It kinda is, sorry," Melissa added, then tilted her head, studying him for a moment. "Hey, so...has anyone ever told you that you look a little bit like Captain America? I mean, if you shaved the beard and cut your hair."

Bucky, to his credit, just snorted out a laugh, but didn't say a word in response. Steve's fingers spasmed around his debit card. Captain America. The myth, the ideal, the perfect soldier and better man. Something Steve hadn't been in a very long time, and nothing he ever did would bring him back either. He'd burned that bridge in a cramped hotel room in Abilene, Texas, the spark fanned into a conflagration by the lost, haunted look on Bucky's face as he'd tried to recall the color of his mother's eyes. 

His reply was gruff, the words forced out through the barbed wire in his throat, when he finally spoke. "Believe me, the only thing I have in common with him is my name."

"Yeah, I don't think anyone could live up to his standard, except maybe Peggy Carter," Melissa said, thankfully oblivious to Steve's thoughts. "That'll be $33.27. Want me to bag everything or did you bring your own?"

"You can bag it," Bucky said, and nudged against Steve's hand until Steve could clasp his fingers, the hold tight, grounding him to the present. To here and now and the _reason_ he'd left the shield behind to set off on his crusade of justice. Everything he'd done to protect Bucky was worth it. He didn't regret a single kill or a single action, and he never would, not if the end result was Bucky being safe.

But still, he couldn't help but feel that Bucky never would see it that way. Bucky'd tried so hard to put his former life behind him, to atone in his own way for the people he'd hurt when he'd been under Hydra's control. He'd worked hard to make his life one of peace — a bargain he'd struck with himself to never take up arms again unless it was too protect himself or someone he loved. 

And yet, he seemed to want an unrepentant killer by his side. Someone who'd relished the violence, had gotten off on the torture, and drank in every anguished scream and every plea for mercy as it had fallen on deaf ears. 

Steve glanced at Bucky, his profile tranquil, fingers tapping to the pop song playing on the radio as he drove them back up the mountain to the house. Bucky, Steve's light in the darkness, his best friend and soulmate, and — some days — the only reason Steve's life had any meaning.

No, he would never regret anything he did during those months he'd hunted down the people who'd had a hand in Bucky's incarceration. And if that meant an afterlife in Hell, it would be worth it. He'd do it all over again without hesitation and face his punishment with a smile.

"You were wrong, you know," Bucky said, breaking the silence. 

"About?"

"You have a lot of Cap still in you."

Steve snorted in disbelief. Of all the things Bucky could have said... "And here I was thinking the exact opposite."

Bucky cast him a quick glance. "I'm being serious."

"So am I." Any similarity Steve had once had to paragon that was Captain America — to the naïve, good man Dr. Erskine had recruited, that idealistic _kid_ who'd just wanted to make the world a better place — had died a slow, painful death, starting from the moment Steve had been found in the ice. He'd tried to fake it as long as he could, but he'd started to crack under the weight of the façade long before he and Bucky had squared off against each other that day on the bridge. 

"No, you're still the same," Bucky replied, taking the hairpin turns easily, his touch on the steering wheel as light as ever. A natural in his element. "The core of you hasn't changed as much as you seem to think."

"The only part of me that was worth anything was your faith in me, Buck." The entire Barnes family, really, shining their light on the world and leading by example. All Steve had ever tried to do was follow the path they'd laid out.

Bucky shook his head, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth. "Pretty sure that road goes both ways," he said. "I save you, you save me, and so on, until the world ends...and maybe even then, we'll still be out there in space like stardust or something, trying to rescue each other."

Steve could think of worse fates. At least they'd be together. "I wouldn't mind being stardust with you."

"Now _that's_ a properly romantic response," Bucky said, and reached across the seat to grab Steve's hand. "And that will definitely get you laid later, so good job."

Steve chuckled, the darkness of his earlier thoughts retreating back to the shadows, withering under the warmth of Bucky's touch and his smile. "You're incorrigible."

Bucky just winked and pulled up to the gate. "You're pronouncing insatiable wrong."

"The _worst_ jokes," Steve groaned, but he knew Bucky wasn't fooled. 

He may not be a good man (despite what Bucky thought), but as long as Bucky still believed in him, it didn't matter.

***


	2. (Part II - "Not Without You")

_The chair was there, silent, looming; the threat unstated, but he could still hear it, as loud as a shout. Compliance would be rewarded; dissent would carry consequence._

_He was handed a gun, fully loaded, and he took it without question. What choice did he have? Choices were for people, not weapons._

_The man appeared next to his elbow, his voice low, insidious, the tenor of someone used to his every order being obeyed._

_I need you to balance the scales one more time. Can you do that for me?_

_The family was lined up against the wall, their faces fearful, tear-streaked, as they all clamored for mercy. But mercy was also for people, not weapons, so he obediently raised his gun and fired, six shots all hitting their targets with unrelenting accuracy —_

 

James jerked awake, swallowing the cry in the back of his throat. It took him a second to remember where he was — Glen Ellen, home, Steve. His name was James Buchanan Barnes, and he was his own person, he was free, and he was never going back to that chair, or killing on orders, ever again.

 _Dream, it was just a dream_ , he reminded himself, and reached across the bed for Steve's solid form. Instead, he found cool sheets and an empty space; he was alone in the room, the sun filtering through the curtains in a mockery of light. 

For a few terrifying moments, a cold wave of dread swept over him. Steve was gone. Crept out in the middle of the night while James had slept, the greatest assassin in modern history oblivious to what was happening under his own nose. Steve had decided what he and James were building together wasn't enough, that this new peaceful life was too much to ask of a warrior used to the adrenaline rush of the fight. James had pushed too far and too fast for peace, hadn't done enough to help Steve see that what they had was enough —

The rich aroma of coffee wafted into the room, then, and James heard the faint squeak of the kitchen floorboards under Steve's familiar weight. _Not gone_ , James' brain supplied. _He's not gone_.

Relief swept over him with all the force of a hurricane. Steve was still with him. Steve was still giving this life — _James_ — a chance.

He threw off the sheet and walked, naked, into the open, airy kitchen. Steve, barefoot and bare-chested, with sleep-tousled hair and sleep lines creasing one cheek, was standing at the counter with a mug in his hand, staring at the coffeepot like it held the secrets to the universe. For a moment, James saw a younger, shorter, and smaller version of Steve standing the exact same way in a much more cramped kitchen, and the two images blurred together in a kaleidoscope of home and family and love. 

James drank the image in like water, from the scruffiness of Steve's beard to the frayed hem of his sleep pants, every inch of him precious and perfect. There was nothing James wouldn't do to make sure Steve stayed here, safe and adored, right where James could keep an eye on him.

"You know that coffee doesn't really work on either of us, right?" 

Steve's shoulders lifted as he let out a tiny chuckle, but he leaned into the touch when James came up behind him and placed a hand at the small of his back. Soaked in the warmth of his skin, and the solidness of his body. 

"Says the man who runs nine miles every day — one way — for a cup of French press," Steve replied.

James pressed a kiss to Steve's shoulder, inhaled the faint hint of sweat and sleep and sex. _Steve. His._ "Yeah, but it's really good French press." 

Steve turned easily in his arms, and their lips met, nice and light, a little sour, but James wouldn't change a thing. _This_ was real — he was in a sun-drenched kitchen in the house he and Steve were remodeling to make their own, just like they were creating lives that were all their own, and the darkness of his thoughts, the violence of his past, the _voice_ inside his head, held no sway here. Steve's lips on his were the only sustenance he would ever need.

Steve's eyes, blue and clear, were steady on his when he leaned back. "You okay?" he asked, tucking a stray bit of hair behind James' ear.

"Yeah, I just...woke up wrong. The usual bullshit." He didn't elaborate; he didn't need to.

"And I wasn't there for you," Steve finished, with a wince. "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking."

"No, it's fine." James rested a hand over Steve's heart, felt the reassuring beat under his palm. Steady and strong, another anchor connecting him to the here and now. 

"It's not fine," Steve argued. "You told me you slept better when I was with you, and I _left_ , that's —"

"Okay, stop." James pushed ever so slightly on Steve's chest. Just enough to make his point. "I don't need you babysitting me or guarding me while I'm asleep, and I don't need you to feel guilty every time I have a bad dream."

Steve's chin jutted out like the pig-headed, self-sacrificing idiot he was. "I should have been there."

"You _are_." James slid his arms around Steve's hips, drew him close. "Feels like you're exactly where you need to be, to me."

"Okay, if you say so," Steve said, even though he didn't sound convinced. But he wrapped his own arms around James' waist and brushed their lips together. James sank into both the kiss and the embrace, and gave a contented sigh when they parted.

"Better?" Steve asked, the lines around his eyes crinkling when he smiled.

"Much." James couldn't conceive of a time when he'd ever say no to getting his mouth on Steve. This aspect of their relationship might still be relatively new, but they'd both fallen into it easily, as in sync as they used to be executing missions during their war. The sex was already amazing, both of them intent on wringing out as much pleasure from the other as they could, the best sort of competition on the planet. James was looking forward to a lifetime of exploring the endless number of ways they could be together now.

Steve gave him another kiss, then extricated himself to grab another mug from the cabinet. "So...I've actually been trying to figure out a way to...well, I've got an idea," he said, filling both cups and pushing one James' way.

The first sip was hot, bracing, perfectly brewed. Steve's prowess in the coffee-making department had come a long way. "I'm listening."

"Why don't we play hooky today and...uh...have a picnic. Or, y'know, something."

"A picnic?" James asked, puzzled. Stark had shipped over solar panels and a new saltwater pump for the pool — a housewarming gift, he'd called it — and they'd already claimed today for the installation. They'd spent most of last week indoors, ripping up the carpet in the hallway and bedrooms and laying down the new hardwood flooring, and were both looking forward to getting back outside while the weather was still holding up. So far, it had been a mild fall, but that was bound to change.

"Yeah," Steve said, cradling his mug in both hands. "I...I mean, I know you don't remember and that's okay, but you and Peggy never got to have the one you kept talking about having after the war was over and I thought...I mean, I woke up thinking about it for some reason, but it's okay if you don't want to, I know we've got a lot to do —"

"It's perfect," James interrupted, with a smile. He didn't remember the long-ago conversation with Peggy, but he did remember the morning he and Steve talked about it, their easy banter about root beer floats and stinky cheeses and the plans they'd made for a future that had never come to pass. The way they'd tried so hard in their own way to keep each other on the right path, even though James hadn't known at the time just how far Steve had fallen. 

But that wasn't a road he wanted to go down today. The important thing was, Steve wanted them to spend the day together, and James wasn't about to object. "We'll stock up on fontina and Chianti and maybe we can find some Keen's cheddar for you," he said, after another sip of coffee.

"No _epoisses_?" Steve teased, eyes flashing with mirth. With _life_ and light and, Jesus, he was beautiful.

"Not if you expect to get laid anytime this week," James replied, wrinkling his nose. He may not remember everything about his past, but he didn't think there was any amount of brainwashing or torture that could ever erase the memory of the stink of that particular cheese. To say it smelled like stale farts did an injustice to stale farts.

"What about a nice block of Stilton?"

"I could live with Stilton," he conceded, because he was willing to pick and choose his battles like any master tactician. And compromise was an important component of any relationship, so he remembered hearing from somewhere.

"Good," Steve said, and snuck in another kiss. "I'll head down to Vella's to get everything we need. Be back before you know it."

***

[](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/azewewish/495704/44851/44851_900.jpg)

***

While Steve was gone, James started a load of sheets, exchanged a couple of emails with Rick, the vigneron from Cast, about when James needed to plant the oats and winter peas he'd decided on as cover crops for the vineyard, and idly surfed the web for two-person hammock design ideas. He and Steve had decided against a daybed or sleeping bags for the back deck, but finding a hammock that would comfortably house two supersoldiers was a challenge. James had ultimately decided he'd rather build one himself instead of buying one and hoping for the best. At the very least, he knew he could construct a frame that would work, and get someone else to weave the actual hammock. Unless he wanted to take up weaving — which could be an interesting hobby. Something to do during the winter months. 

He heard the roar of the bike coming up the hill to their gate, and he strolled to the front door, opening it just as Steve shut the engine off and swung a leg over the seat. He'd gone into town without his helmet (which James couldn't fault him for, as he did the same thing all the time), and his hair was even more windswept than usual, and almost white-blond, the cheap dye he'd been using to color it during his missions long since washed out. His tee was stretched tight across wide shoulders, his jeans hugging rock-solid thighs, and it took every ounce of self-control James still possessed not to cross the yard and drag Steve to the ground to get his hands and mouth on every delectable inch of Steve's body he could.

The force of his want still surprised him, sometimes. He couldn't remember ever feeling this way about anyone else, although he did sometimes have flashes — memories of pleasant evenings spent in the company of various women. He never asked Steve if he'd been serious about any of them, if he'd had a sweetheart waiting for him back home while he'd been on the front during the War. Maybe one day, he'd bring it up, but even if he'd had a steady girl, she'd either be long since dead or too old for any sort of meaningful reunion — and, in any case, that life, the man he used to be, was nothing more than a faded memory.

And he wouldn't trade what he had right now for anything or anybody.

Steve walked to the open door, a shopping bag in one hand, and stopped, frowning a little when he saw James. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Everything's perfect." James leaned in, but kept the kiss deliberately light. There would be time later to peel Steve out of his clothes and satisfy all of his needs. Right now, it was a beautiful day, and he wanted to be out in it. A day of laziness — no to-do list, no agenda, just the two of them enjoying the weather and each other. It sounded like heaven.

Steve smiled and took James' metal hand, lacing their fingers together easily, like they'd been doing it all their lives. "You ready to head out?"

"Sure." 

They grabbed one of the throw blankets they kept by the sofa, and then walked back outside, past the chicken coop and the garden and orchard. It really was a gorgeous morning, the sky a hazy blue with wispy white clouds dotting the horizon, the sun warm, but not unbearably hot. All around them were mountains and the vineyards stretched below, verdant and picturesque. 

They got to have this now; this was _theirs_ : every blade of grass, every leaf on every tree, every stick of furniture, and every slat of wood that made up the house. They got to wake up curled around each other, got to take their time untangling their limbs and pressing sleep-warm kisses to whatever body part was closest. They got to have their small, but no less cherished, routines — a run every morning, rain or shine (this morning notwithstanding), a joint shower that, more often than not, ended in lazy, mutual handjobs, a breakfast they made together before going off to their separate projects around the house or grounds, meeting back up for dinner every night, trying out new recipes and new bottles of wine. And every night, they fell asleep tangled close, sometimes piling all of the blankets on the back deck, sometimes spooning in the middle of the bed, but together. Always together.

They'd fought so hard to have this little bit of paradise. For this little bit of peace. And maybe it made James a terrible person, but he _wouldn't_ change a thing about the past. Every person he'd been forced to kill under Hydra's control, every bit of torture and reprogramming he'd endured, every memory he'd lost, had brought him here. Here to a secluded house nestled in the mountains, here with Steve, his best friend and lover, with him in a way that meant so much more now than what it used to when they were young. 

No, he wouldn't change anything. And if this happiness had come at a terrible cost, well, at least he knew how to appreciate what he had as a result.

Steve led him through a field, then across another, the silence between them nice and easy. It was humbling how hard Steve was trying, how much he wanted to make this work. How much of himself he'd given in the few months since he'd chosen to build a life with James over going back out to complete his mission, hell-bent on revenge and dealing in death. James wasn't naïve enough to pretend that they wouldn't have more dark days and nights ahead of them, or that there wouldn't come a time when Steve might decide retirement wasn't for him, but James was learning to take each day as it came. Steve was _with_ him now. That was all that mattered.

After another ten minutes, Steve paused at the top of a small hill and looked around, nodding to himself. "Here," he decided, and James hummed in agreement. He couldn't have picked better.

They spread out the blanket and sat, and Steve started unloading the bag — a loaf of crusty French bread, a wrapped hunk of Fontina, another of Stilton, a bottle of 2008 Barone Ricasoli Chianti, and two cups.

"I know I should have bought glassware, but plastic seemed a little more expedient," Steve said, as he uncorked the bottle and started to pour. His smile was sheepish, shy and sweet in a way that was also new, but utterly gorgeous all the same. "I know it's not as romantic as, I dunno, crystal or something, but...well, it's the thought that counts, right?"

"Feels pretty romantic to me," James replied, breaking off a piece of the Fontina and popping it into his mouth. Savored the rich taste on his tongue that contrasted nicely with the vibrant black cherries and tannins of the Chianti. An excellent choice on both counts.

"Not sure if you remember, but we used to do this sometimes at Prospect Park, growing up," Steve told him, scooping a spoonful of Stilton onto a hunk of bread. "Our families, I mean, in the summer. Our folks would pick a place near the lake to sit and relax and your sisters and me and you, we'd run ourselves ragged playing with the other kids."

"Sounds nice." It didn't conjure up any memories, but that was okay. He liked the way Steve talked about their childhood, the obvious affection in his voice for their families and those long ago days. "What happened to them? My sisters, I mean," he clarified, when Steve gave him a questioning look. "Did they ever get married, have kids, have fabulous careers and adventures and long lives?" 

He was strong enough now, he hoped. Strong enough to hear about everything he and Steve had missed during the decades they'd spent in their respective captivities.

"Jeez, uh, gimme a minute to think." Steve blew out a breath and drained the rest of his wine in one big gulp. "Well...um...Al, she started her own business empire, believe it or not. Pretty successful one, too. Becca, uh, she worked overseas for the Peace Corps, or whatever it was called back then — anyway, when she came back to New York, she got married and started a family, but kept on with her philanthropic work. She and Al's family lived up the street from each other, in the same neighborhood we grew up in."

James felt a swell of pride surge through him. His sisters had made their mark in the world, just like they'd always said they would. "What about Grace?"

"She met a guy and moved to Chicago, then moved back to New York when they got divorced. Started working for Al's company, and that's how she met her second husband. They eventually had four kids —"

"She always wanted a big family," James murmured, his heart aching with a mixture of satisfaction and grief. He _was_ glad — fiercely so — that they'd all made lives for themselves, that they'd found love and happiness and had children who would carry on their legacy, but it was still bittersweet. He and Steve should have been there for all of it, and they weren't. 

Still, it helped, knowing they hadn't let the loss of himself and Steve define them. They'd stuck with each other, the family smaller, but no less real.

"I, uh, Al was the only one still alive when I came out of the ice, but she was...she was pretty bad off, so I never got a chance to talk to her before she passed. I did get to sit with her for a little bit when she was in hospice care, but..." Steve blindly reached out with his hand, and James caught it, held as tight as he could. Let Steve know he was there, that he wasn't going anywhere. "I met everyone else, though, at the funeral, all the kids and grandkids, Becca and Grace's families, and...whenever you're ready, I know they'd all love to meet you, too."

He hadn't even thought about that — meeting these new members of his family, his nieces and nephews, and their children and grandchildren. Somehow, it never even occurred to him that it was a possibility. "You really think they'd want to meet me, after everything I've done?"

"Of course," Steve said, not even hesitating. Still James' biggest defender. "Buck, you're _family_. They're not going to blame you for what you were forced to do as a prisoner of war."

"Prisoner of war," James repeated, slowly, testing out the words. He'd never thought about it like that, either, but it made a certain amount of sense. He and Steve both had been prisoners, had both had their agencies and choices stripped until neither one could see an escape route, until the day they'd found each other again. And even then, it had taken them awhile to recognize that chance for what it was — an opportunity to move on. To create a new life, one they could call their own.

"You don't have to, of course, but —"

"No, I...I want to. One day," James said, nodding, a promise to himself, to the future. "After we get the vineyard up and running, we'll invite everyone here and have a proper reunion, a great big party, and we'll drink wine and tell stories and catch up and be together."

"Whenever you want, we'll make it happen," Steve said, and brought James' hand up to his lips to place a kiss to cool metal knuckles. Another promise, telling James without words that he'd be there, that they'd still be together, no matter how long it took for James to be ready.

James loved him so much it swamped every other emotion, the force of it shoving aside every ache and every regret. Against every known odd in the universe, Steve had found him and saved him, and was saving him still. A gift he hadn't even known to ask for, and one he'd never deserve, but that was okay. He didn't _have_ to deserve it. All he had to do was accept that it was his.

"Thank you," he said, and pressed Steve to the blanket, covering Steve's body with his own, the picnic forgotten as they traded lazy, languorous kisses under a sunlit sky. 

***

_The second the medics gave Bucky the all clear, he made a beeline to the makeshift showers that had been set up behind the mess tent. Steve was off God knew where, probably debriefing with the Colonel or maybe getting dressed down or even having his rank stripped for disobeying a direct order, Bucky didn't know. All he knew was he was thankful for whatever it was that had taken Steve away from dogging Bucky's shadow like he'd done every step of the journey from the Hydra base to camp._

_Bucky stripped quickly, and had to bite back the audible moan of bliss when the water hit his skin. Even scrubbing himself down with a harsh bar of lye soap, standing under the world's most tepid spray, felt like a luxury beyond price. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd been clean. Couldn't remember the last time he'd been allowed to just stand still. To simply_ be _._

_And, chances were really fucking good that he wouldn't be getting too many more chances in the foreseeable future, either. He knew, even without Steve saying a damn word about it, that his dumb lug of a best friend was going back to the front in some way or another. There was no way he'd be content with going back to his USO tour, not after his first real taste of honest-to-God heroism. The stubborn fuck finally had a body to match his outsized guts, was finally able to be a soldier, just like his old man._

_But he would get himself killed within a week,_ also _just like his old man, if he didn't have someone around to watch his back and keep him safe._

 _Bucky dropped his head, letting the rivulets of water trickle over his head and neck, but didn't close his eyes. He could still see Zola's piggish, smug face behind his eyelids every time he did, could still hear Higgins' screams as they'd dragged him out of their cramped cell, never to be seen again. Bucky's nights of sleeping easy and clear were done for the time being, if not forever, but he'd be damned if he wasn't just as eager as Steve to get back out there. He may have to live with the nightmares and the shame for not doing enough to save more of his men, but this fight was about something so much bigger than him. And his folks sure as hell hadn't raised a coward or a quitter. What kind of man would he be if he didn't attempt to get some measure of revenge on the bastards who'd captured him and tried to scramble his insides, who'd tortured his friends and experimented on them, all in the name of some nebulous_ science _?_

_Besides, someone needed to make sure Steve didn't run himself ragged trying to prove to the brass and himself that he was worthy of the Captain America moniker that had been thrust on him. Someone needed to be there to remind Steve that he'd spent a lot more years being Steve Rogers, rabble rouser and good egg, long before the Army had gotten their mitts on him._

_And lucky for Steve, Bucky was happy to be that person._

***

"This...I know this song," Bucky said, towel-drying his hair as he wandered into the bedroom the next morning after their run.

"Hmm?" Steve frowned, but then the melody filtered through his brain, and he let out a soft chuckle. _I Miss You So_ by Cats and the Fiddle. One of his personal favorites. "Yeah, you should. God knows you seduced enough girls to it."

"I did, huh?" 

"Yeah, you called it dancing, but it was more like full-bodied snuggling."

A speculative gleam appeared in Bucky's eyes. Then he dropped the towel to the floor and held out a hand. "Well, let's see if the technique still holds up."

"Pretty sure you don't need to dance with me to seduce me, Buck." Especially considering Bucky was standing gorgeously naked before him, his skin bronzed by so much time outdoors, every sculpted inch of his body the best sort of temptation. Just looking at him made Steve breathless. 

Bucky stuck his hand out again, more firmly. "Maybe not, but I still want one."

"Fine," Steve replied, stepping forward, forever a moth drawn to Bucky's flame, "but I'll warn you now, I'm still not any good at it."

"I'll be the judge of that," Bucky said, and arranged them so they were chest to chest, hands clasped together, Bucky's metal hand cool on the small of Steve's back. They shuffled around the room, Bucky's cheek rough and bristly against Steve's own, and maybe they weren't going to win any dancing contests like this, but it was easy enough to follow Bucky's lead and lose himself in the rhythm of the song.

_I want you only, to share my dream once more...I'll always love you, and I'll be true..._

For the first time, the words resonated with him in a way they never had back when he'd been a skinny, yearning young man who'd only wanted someone to _see_ him the way he'd seen himself. For someone to share his hopes and dreams, someone to built a life with, a home to call his own. And, ironically enough, he'd found that person, and he'd been right under Steve's nose the entire time. Only now _he_ wasn't the same. Not even in the same stratosphere.

"This is a really sad song," Bucky commented, after a minute. He pulled back enough to look Steve in the eyes, but kept moving nice and easy, as light on his feet as he'd ever been. Still possessing that innate grace he'd been born with. "And I used to use it to woo girls?"

"What can I say, some girls are suckers for tragic," Steve said, shrugging a little. "Your other go-to seduction song was _You're Getting To Be A Habit With Me_ by Bing Crosby, if that helps."

"That one at least sounds more upbeat." The song ended, and Leadbelly's raspy voice came on, singing about the Bourgeois Blues (the station must be playing 1939's greatest hits, Steve thought), and it wasn't the best song for a slow dance, but Bucky didn't seem inclined to stop moving, so Steve stayed right where he was. It wasn't like he was ever going to turn down the opportunity to get his hands on Bucky, no matter what the reason.

"I'm not sure why you think you're not any good at this," Bucky said, after another few moments of easy silence. "You been practicing with someone?"

Steve shook his head minutely and allowed Bucky to sweep him outside the open sliding glass door to the back deck. The music faded into the background, drowned out by the clucking of the chickens in their coop and the morning song of the birds in their nests. "Last person I danced with was Peggy."

"No one since?" Bucky asked, frowning slightly. 

"I guess I was waiting for the right partner after all."

Bucky's lips trembled at the edges when he smiled. " _Definitely_ killing it on the romantic front."

Steve didn't know about all that — he was too blunt, too angry, too singularly focused — but it didn't matter what he thought, not really. If Bucky had all these misguided notions about him, Steve didn't have the strength to correct him on any of it. Yet another sin to lay at his feet. 

"I told you, I stole all my best moves and lines from you," he replied, and rubbed his cheek alongside Bucky's again, taking comfort in the way their hearts beat in time, the way their feet moved to a rhythm all their own.

They didn't need music; all they needed was each other.

***


	3. (Part III - "'Cause You've Got Nothing To Prove")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of death of minor children (related to Bucky's time as The Winter Soldier)

Steve's phone vibrated in his pocket just as he finished tightening the screws on the cover of the new saltwater pump. He fished it out of his jeans, saw Nat's name lit up, and hit the accept button so hard he put a hairline crack in the screen. "Is everything okay?" he asked, glancing around to make sure Bucky was nowhere in sight. It wasn't exactly a secret that he and Nat still kept in touch, but he didn't want to advertise it, either.

"You know, Rogers, contrary to popular opinion, we did all manage to catch bad guys and kick ass without you around for quite a long time."

"Smartass."

"From you, I'll take it as a compliment. But we're fine," she said, assuaging his fears. "Spensnik is officially in custody."

In custody. Not dead. Part of him hated that the bastard was still breathing, resented the fact that he was alive when so many good and innocent people had lost their lives, but overriding it was a palpable sense of relief. One less person Steve had to worry about coming after Bucky. One less death on Steve's own conscience, one less stain on his soul. 

"That's...that's good news," he offered, carefully, testing out the words.

If Nat noticed the slight hesitation — and it was Nat, so of course she had — she didn't mention it. Steve was grateful for it. "How's life on the farm?" she asked.

"Still not a farm yet, but it's...good. Peaceful," he added, after a moment.

"Peaceful's good," she told him. "God knows you and Barnes have earned it."

"So everyone keeps telling me."

"You know there's no shame in laying down the shield, right?" she asked. "There are plenty of others who would be more than happy to take it up in your name, if needed."

It wasn't someone else taking up the shield or the Captain America title that worried him. He'd made his peace with giving both up a long time ago, knew once he'd set out on his crusade that he was never getting either back. It was more than giving up a rank or a weapon, deeper, more visceral. Something he couldn't explain, even to himself, something he wasn't sure he wanted to. But every time he thought about a lifetime without a cause or a fight, of an endless stretch of tranquil days and easy nights, part of him cringed. 

What did that say about him, that he was so torn between desperately wanting to live a simple life by Bucky's side, and itching for the primal satisfaction of plowing his fist into someone's face? 

"Whatever you and Tony choose to do with the shield is fine with me, you know that," he finally offered.

Nat tsked. "You're still a rotten liar."

"I'm not lying, I just..." He sighed. "What do you want me to say, Nat?"

"The truth," she said, not letting him wiggle out of anything, just like always. "And we both know the truth is, some part of you still wants to be out here, because we _both_ know your need for vengeance is stronger than anything else."

It was uncomfortably close to his own thoughts. But then, she'd always been able to read him better than most. "I was just trying to protect Buck." 

"No, you were trying to punish yourself for failing to save him," she replied, unconcerned with his clipped tone. "You told me more than once you'd started doing this as atonement, yet you refuse to see your own salvation when it’s right in front of you."

 _You don’t need to kill for him to show you still care._ Nat's words, from what seemed like so long ago, rang in his ears. Maybe she was right. If only Steve knew where to start. If only he knew _how_ to go about earning this miracle he'd been given.

"Look, I gotta go, but if...if you do need me..." He trailed off, knowing she didn't need him to finish. Part of him may not want to leave Bucky, not for any reason, but he'd always accepted that there might come a day when he'd have to. It was half the reason he still hadn't shaved the beard. He needed to be ready at a moment's notice to go back out in the field.

"We won't," Nat replied, and hung up before he could say anything else. 

***

James scribbled another reminder in the margins of his notebook, then shut it and the laptop with a satisfied sigh. He still had a lot of work ahead of him, and he'd probably have to spend a season apprenticing at another vineyard to get in some practical experience, but he had a much better grasp these days on what he needed to do to start growing his own grapes. He'd learned more about soil composites and grape varietals and irrigation systems in the last few months than he remembered learning about anything, and he couldn't wait for the opportunity to put all of this new knowledge to use. 

Their vineyards may not win any awards or even make him or Steve a profit, but that wasn't the point. James didn't need any more fame (or infamy), and he had more than enough money stashed in various holdings so he and Steve could live long, comfortable lives together. He was doing this just to see if he could. To see if he was just as capable of creating something from nothing as he had been in dealing out destruction and death.

Ever since they'd cleared out the space in the living room for the studio and installed a drawing table, Steve had spent a lot of time hunched over it, pencil scratching over paper, the noise soothing, natural in a way that teased at James' still nebulous memories of days gone by. But the chair was empty when James went looking for Steve, and Steve wasn't up in the loft, either, or out in the garden. James finally found him in the garage, crouched beside the bike, an array of tools littering the space beside him. 

"Hand me the quarter-inch Allen wrench, would you?" Steve asked, not bothering to look up. 

James slapped it into Steve's palm and dropped cross-legged onto the concrete to watch as Steve loosened the bolt. "Oil leak?" he guessed. 

"Not sure. Could be a blocked return port, could be an oil leak, could be the crankcase or maybe the seal's just off, no idea," Steve said, grunting a little when another bolt stubbornly refused to loosen. Probably didn't want to yank too hard on it and strip it, James thought. "Won't know until I get the valve cover off."

James thought about asking if Steve needed any help, but he seemed to have it under control, so James stayed put, and just nodded. "Guess it's a good thing you're handy with motorcycle mechanics," he said. He'd taught himself a little bit about basic car repairs after he'd bought the truck, but taking apart an engine seemed a little above his paygrade. Might be fun to learn, though. Maybe he'd get Steve to teach him.

Steve snorted, then let out a pleased noise when he was finally able to get the bolt off, and dropped into the empty oil pan beside his right leg. "I better be, as much time as we spent fixing your old bike back in the day."

"My old bike?" James had owned a bike in Brooklyn? One he and Steve used to work on? Well, that explained a lot — like how he'd known how to ride one, for starters. He'd always assumed it had been programmed into him by Hydra, much like his piloting skills and hand-to-hand combat skills.

"Yeah." Steve threw him a quick, blinding grin before tackling the next bolt. "You had this old beat-up Harley you bought off Mr. Stachowski — thought your ma was going to have a heart attack when you rolled up with it, all pleased as punch with yourself for the bargain you'd gotten." The bolt also went into the pan with a ping and Steve went onto the next one. "Of course, even if you'd gotten it for free, it was still a bad investment — damn thing was more wire and duct tape than anything metal, and there were times we were tearing the engine apart more than we were riding it, but you and me, we managed to keep it running for years. Skill came in pretty handy during the War, too, when we had to make repairs on the fly."

The words conjured up vague images of a dimly lit garage, and he and a much smaller Steve bent over the wheel of a motorcycle, but nothing concrete. He didn't try to chase the memories, though; he knew better. They would either come to him or they wouldn't. "I guess that explains why I felt so at ease on the bike."

"You were a natural," Steve said, bending back to his task. "But then, you always were. I spent most of my life just trying to keep up with you."

There it was again, James thought. That faint aura of unworthiness that seemed to permeate Steve's entire being, the way Steve phrased certain things — and James was sure Steve meant to be complimentary, but it always came out as self-deprecating. The nagging reminder that Steve forever thought he wasn't good enough, strong enough, fast enough, no matter what James said or did or how many times he tried to assure Steve that he _was_ enough just by virtue of being himself. 

"You do that a lot, you know," he commented, deliberately keeping his voice level. Casual. 

"Hmm?" Steve asked, shining a small flashlight on the gasket seal and clearly not paying attention.

"Act like I was great at everything I ever did or took up, and I don't think that's true." If it was, James was just as glad he _couldn't_ remember everything about his past life, because he sounded insufferable.

Steve let out a small, mirthless chuckle, a lock of hair falling across a forehead smudged with oil. "It probably isn't, but it felt like it to me. I knew you better than anyone, and still, I was in awe of you half the time. You made everything look easy. You still do."

Jesus, this was worse than he'd thought. Steve knew all about the bad days and the nightmares and how hard James worked, every minute of every hour of every goddamn day, to be worthy of this third chance he had at life and happiness. "You know better," he said, not quite as mild or casual now. 

The look Steve gave him was challenging, flinty, his mouth a flat line behind the scruff of his beard. "Maybe I do and maybe I don't."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

The wrench went clanging to the floor as Steve clenched both hands into fists so hard his knuckles turned white. " _Stop_ trying to fucking pretend you're not better, that I'm not dragging you down. I'm a fucking killer and _proud_ of it. You could do so much —"

"Did you know I blew up an orphanage in Bangalore?" James asked, steel infusing every word, because _fuck_ this. He'd heard enough; he was _done_. 

Steve jerked his head up, mouth falling open in surprise. " _What_?"

"1971, during the height of the tensions between India and the US. Rigged it to look like a gas leak, all to kill _one_ politician who was there on some PR visit." Outwardly, he knew he appeared calm, but he could feel his insides clench in remembrance of the horrors he'd committed. Of how calmly and dispassionately he'd murdered children, because it was the most expedient means to achieve his end result. Sleep tonight would be a long time coming, provided he slept at all. But he'd open a vein and bleed all over the floor if it got Steve to finally _listen_. If he finally, Jesus fuck, _finally_ knocked James off whatever ridiculous pedestal he'd placed him on back when they'd been kids.

If Steve was an unrepentant killer, then James was Death incarnate. And it was past time Steve remembered that and processed it through that thick fucking skull of his. 

Steve's face was ashen; he looked like he'd been sucker-punched. "Jesus, Buck..."

James continued, undeterred, relentless now that he had Steve's undivided attention. "Pierce's idea, not that it mattered. Matters," he amended.

"Of course it matters. You weren't acting under —"

"45 children, all under the age of ten, eight caretakers on duty, three infants. _Infants_ , Steve." He could still feel the heat of the fire, smell the burning flesh, taste the acrid smoke in the air. Images he'd carry with him the rest of his life. So many atrocities, so many lives ruined, all by his hands. All to satisfy the whims of a group who would have done anything, committed any crime, to keep and consolidate their base of power.

At least when he'd still been Bucky Barnes and fighting in the War, he'd taken lives so others could live free. Not so a few old, rich, corrupt men could sleep better at night.

"It _wasn't_ you," Steve insisted, but James was already shaking his head in rebuttal.

"You know, it doesn't matter how many times you say it, it won't make it true. It _was_ me." He pointed at himself with a metal finger. " _I_ did it. And it doesn't matter who ordered the killings or why. I'm the one that has to live with it." James nudged Steve then, gently, but his reply had an edge to it. Sharp, like the knives he still carried for self-defense. "So stop trying to pick a goddamn fight with me over how much _better_ or more _moral_ " — He spat the word out like an epithet — "I am than you. Because I'm not and I never was."

Just as quick as it appeared, Steve's anger deflated, like a leaky balloon, his shoulders drooping, his hands falling to his lap. "You're right. I'm sorry," he quietly said.

"I don't need an apology. Just...all those black thoughts that keep you up at night, I _get_ it, okay." James ached for both of them, and the weight they both would always carry. They could spend the rest of their lives swimming against the current trying to drown them, and the shore would still be nowhere in sight. "Whatever demons you have, Stevie, whatever terrible acts you've committed...I'm the last person in the universe who's going to judge you. I know what carrying around all of that impotence and rage is like, so if you need to let it out, just let me know. You don't have to keep it bottled up for my sake."

Steve jerked out a nod, the color slowly returning to his cheeks. "Thank you. You know, uh, once upon a time, you wouldn’t have been so patient with me."

"Well, once upon a time, I wasn't interested in getting naked with you, either," James replied, with a small shrug. "Things change, but...you're worth my patience." 

Steve let out a small laugh. "I just...maybe I will put up a punching bag on the back deck or something."

"Might not be a bad idea." Having an outlet was important. "And I'll spar with you if that's something you think might help —"

"No, you've..." Steve dropped his gaze again, shame tinting every word. "You made it clear how you feel about, y'know, fighting. I don't want to make you do something you don't want to do."

"I'm _offering_. There's a difference." He tugged at the shaggy ends of Steve's hair until Steve finally lifted his head. Steve resembled nothing so much as a puppy who'd gotten yelled at, all forlorn and wary, those beautifully expressive eyes of his at half-mast, the corners of his mouth turned down. James wasn't sure if he wanted to wrap Steve in his arms and block out the world or kiss him until the only thing Steve could focus on was James' taste. "Working together to keep our skills sharp isn't the worst idea in the world. Just because no one's after us now doesn't mean they won't come after us eventually. So I don't mind sparring. What I'm _never_ doing again is hitting you in anger or —"

Steve cut him off with a hard kiss, his teeth scraping over James' top lip, bristles rough on his cheeks. "I love you so much," he murmured, fierce and low. "And I'm working on earning yours, I swear, please, just...don't give up on me."

 _What did this world_ do _to you that you’d sacrifice so much and not have the slightest clue on how to ask for anything in return?_ James wondered. He could feel his heart cracking, but he just nodded. For Steve, he could be as patient as Job himself. 

"I love you, too," he said, and kept the next kiss soft and light. 

Recovery wasn't linear, he reminded himself. And it wasn't his job to fight Steve's battles for him, no matter how much he wanted to take up the sword. He had enough of his own without adding more to the list. 

All he could do was try to find a way to let Steve know he was forgiven. That the past was just that — the past. And he hoped, one day, Steve would learn that James' love came with no strings attached. 

Whoever Steve was now, whatever war he was waging within himself, James was with him, ride or die.

***

_Bucky hurriedly got to his feet when his mother slipped into the kitchen, her handkerchief pressed against her lips. He opened his mouth, but closed it when she shook her head once, briefly. A silent entreaty for more time._

_He opened his arms instead and she crossed the room, hugged him tight, her arms trembling against his back. "How bad?" he quietly asked, and braced himself for the answer._

_She let out a sob, but then steeled herself, straightening to her full height as she tilted her chin to look him in the eyes. "It...it doesn’t look good, sweetheart," she said, softly, like saying the words out aloud would tempt the fates. "Doc said all we can do is...make her comfortable."_

_There was a finality to her voice that he shied away from, reeling back like she'd struck him. "But she'll get better," he insisted. Steve always pulled through his bouts with pneumonia or influenza, why should Sarah Rogers be any different? Sure, her cough had been getting steadily worse, but she was tough, just like Steve, the toughest person Bucky knew._

_Ma's eyes filled. "My darling boy, you're so brave." She cupped his cheek, thumbed at the tears that had fallen, unbidden and unwanted. "We need to be brave for Steve now. He'll need us."_

__He'll need us. _Fuck, this was going to destroy him. The foundation of Steve's entire life was his mother. Without her to shore him up, and keep him going...well, Bucky didn't even want to think about it. Didn't want to think about the hole Mrs. Rogers' absence would leave in his own life, how he'd cope without her steady presence and soft words of encouragement._

_"I gotta...I need go to him." He pressed a quick, soft kiss to his mother’s brow. "Love you so much, Ma," he whispered, and hugged her again, before walking out the front door and down to Steve and Sarah's place. On the way, he shook himself, suppressing his own grief, because Steve needed him a helluva lot more right now._

_The front door squeaked when he opened it, the hinges catching just like always, but the living room was dark, cast in shadow. Steve was hunched on the sofa, his legs drawn up to his chest, bony arms wrapped around them like he was trying to make himself even smaller than he already was. Bucky could hear the raspy coughing down the hall and the low murmur from the doc, but he dropped to the cushions next to Steve, unsure what to do now that he was here._

_Mrs. Rogers was the best person Bucky knew, outside his own folks. What the hell_ right _did God have, trying to take her away from the son who adored her and the family that loved her like their own? It wasn't fair._

_"I don’t know what to do," Steve confessed, so quiet Bucky thought he might've imagined it except for the watery hitch in Steve's breath. "Buck, I don’t —"_

_He reached out on instinct, pulled Steve to his side, uncaring of how it might look to anyone who might come into the room to see them. "We'll figure it out, okay," he said, an oath he'd make ten times over, twice a day, if it meant Steve would stop trembling in his arms like an unmoored leaf. "Me and you, we're a team._ Family. _And I'm always gonna have your back."_

_As long as Bucky had breath in his body, he'd stand by Steve's side. Whatever Steve needed, Bucky would make sure he got it, no questions asked._

_Steve nodded, rabbit-quick, then looked up. His eyes were much too big for his thin, drawn face. "I'm scared, Buck," he confessed, and Bucky's heart broke clean in two._

_"I'll be with you the whole way, no matter what. We'll get through it, I promise," he vowed, and they stayed just like that, taking silent comfort in the other's presence, until the doc walked into the room._

***


	4. (Part IV - "The Right Partner")

James leaned on the end of his rake and looked out in satisfaction at the neat rows of newly planted herbs — basil and cilantro, Italian parsley, sage, and rosemary — interspersed with plum tomatoes and spinach. "You think we should do cardoon next?"

Steve stood, dusting the dirt off his jeans, and swiped the back of his hand across a sweaty forehead. "Cardoon?" he asked. "Don't think I've heard of it."

"They're a little like artichoke's smokier cousins. I was reading somewhere that you can use them to help fortify vermouths."

"We're making vermouth now?"

"Maybe not for mass production, but I was thinking for home use." James set the rake down and picked up his bottle of water, pouring half on his face before drinking the rest. "What do you think?"

Steve shrugged, but James could see the smile flitting across his mouth. "You're the genius of the operation, Buck. I'm just the hired help, remember."

He reached out, snagged Steve's fingers to pull him close. "Still not paying you." 

"I would be willing to accept bribes in lieu of payment," Steve said, and the grin widened, crinkling his eyes and making him look younger, carefree. So much like the boy James could sometimes remember.

He dropped his lashes to give Steve his most flirtatious smile. "How about a nice, long, hot shower and I'll scrub your back?"

Steve wrapped an arm around James' waist to haul him flush against Steve's body. "Sure," he murmured, his gaze dropping to James' lips. "And if I wanted you to scrub my front, too?"

"You did a good job today, I guess you've earned it," James replied, and slanted their mouths together, the kiss a precursor and a promise.

***

It wasn't until much, much later, the sun dipping behind the mountains, when they brought a bottle of Thor's mead out to the back deck to watch the first of the twilight stars appearing in the sky. The breeze was cool, crisp, but neither made a move to light the fire pit. Instead, they cuddled together on one of the benches, sharing body heat and a relaxed, lazy silence. 

James toyed with the stem of his wine glass, and took a slow sip. The mead was rich on the tongue in an indescribable way, but still sweetly tart, tasting faintly of blood oranges and whatever passed for sour cherries on Asgard. At some point, he needed to get the recipe from Thor and see if there was any way to replicate it using ingredients from Earth.

Steve plucked at a stray thread on his sleep pants, his gaze jerking up to James', then back down. "So, uh, Nat called the other day."

James was almost afraid to ask, but if something bad had happened, it was best to know it now. "Everything good?"

Another quick glance up, another look down. "Yeah. She and Sam, they brought Spensnik in."

Wes Spensnik. One of Pierce's most trusted lieutenants, and one of James' own handlers. Odd how the thought of those days didn't hurt nearly as much as they used to. Maybe he was finally moving on. "That's good, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course." Steve's head bobbled when he nodded. "It's great."

"But you wanted to be the one to catch him," James guessed, his throat closing a little at the thought of Steve leaving the sanctity of Glen Ellen and their home to take up arms again. To kill again, in the name of what Steve called justice. Not that James gave a good goddamn if anyone in Hydra's employ lived or died, but Steve didn't need to be that blunt instrument of vengeance. He'd done enough.

"Kinda, but no, it's like..." Finally Steve looked up. His eyes were troubled. "Yeah, I mean, it would have been nice to have wrapped my hands around his throat, I won't lie, but mostly I was just...relieved that he was in custody."

 _Relief_ , not regret. Which meant, maybe Steve _wasn't_ going to leave. Maybe it meant... Well, James didn't want to give voice to the hope he could feel bubbling in his chest. He didn't want to jinx anything. 

"Would it help if I told you I feel the same?" he asked.

"A little, yeah, it does. Makes me think I'm not...I mean..." Steve shrugged and took a quick, nervous sip of his mead. "It's just...something else Nat said, something Tony said when he was out here...it's stuck with me. They think — they both think — it's time I turn the shield over to someone else."

"And? What do you think?" They still hadn't talked about this, about Steve giving up the shield and the title and everything that came with it. 

"I think I gave up the right to call myself Captain America when I made the choice to go after Hydra on my own," Steve said, tilting his head back to look up at the stars overhead. His profile shadowed, but still strong, still proud. "But I guess I...I never concerned myself too much with what the next chapter of my life would _be_."

A sentiment James knew all too well. He thought back to his weeks on the road with Thor, about how he'd tried to figure out how to reconcile his past with his present, too afraid to even _think_ about the future in case it all disappeared. "Just do whatever makes you happy."

"I don't know what that is anymore," Steve replied, with a weariness James felt clear down to his own bones.

"Well, maybe that's a good place to start," James gently replied, nuzzling Steve's temple when Steve turned his head. "Figuring out what makes you happy, I mean."

"I think...maybe I'm going to head to the fire station tomorrow, see if they need any volunteer help." Steve sighed and shifted even closer. "Or maybe, I don't know, I can offer to teach a self-defense class at the Y or something — maybe we could teach it together, what do you think?"

"I think whatever you want to do is great," James said. "I know you'll get bored just staying here at the house once we're done with all the repairs, and I know you want to help people, which is great. One of the things I love most about you. But I, just, I..."

"You?" Steve prompted, when James fell silent.

"I'm worried that one day this won't be enough for you." _That I won't be enough_ , James wanted to say, but didn't. As far as he'd come since that day on the helicarrier when he'd chosen Steve over his mission, he was still scared to voice some things out loud.

"You're worried I'll leave you to start fighting again," Steve said, as perceptive as ever.

"Or that the bloodlust will come back," James admitted.

Steve dragged a hand over his face and sighed, long and deep. "Look, I won't pretend I don't still have a ton of rage where Hydra is concerned. I'll never get over what they stole from us —"

"You can't live your life thinking what if —"

"Let me finish, Buck." The rebuke mild, but still a rebuke. "You've had more time to come to terms with it or make peace with it or whatever it is, and you've always been the more forgiving of the two of us." Steve grabbed onto James' hand to hold it against his chest, right over his heart. "But that doesn't mean I'm leaving. I made my choice. I chose _you_. I chose _this_."

"I know, I just don't want you to wake up one day and regret it." _Regret me,_ he almost said, but stopped himself at the last second. There was still every possibility that Steve wouldn't stay, and James would lose both the battle and the war for Steve's soul. Because he knew, better than most, that there was no way to save someone who didn't think they needed it or deserved it.

"I've got enough regrets for several lifetimes," Steve replied. "Some part of me is always going to be the man who let your mother down —"

"You know she wouldn't see it that way."

"It doesn't change anything." Steve's chin jutted out, stubborn to the very core of him, something that had always stayed the same. "I've got to live with that, live with all of my failures, the people I couldn't save, the things I couldn't change. But one regret I'll never have is you," he said, giving voice to James' deepest fear, and all but nullifying it. He squeezed James' hand again, his expression church solemn and just as reverent. "I chose you, I choose you, and I will keep on choosing you until we really are stardust up in the heavens, and even then, I'll _still_ choose you. I may not have done much right in my life, but you — you've always been the best thing in it." 

James could only nod, too overwhelmed to speak. He had no idea how Steve could just... _do_ that. Make these beautiful speeches that elevated everything he was feeling into something holy, something divine. He let out a shuddering breath, tears forming at the corners of his eyes, love and gratitude tangling together in his heart, then spilling over the brim to pour over every other cell in his body. 

"I'm not saying you're not wrong to be worried a little bit," Steve continued. "But there are other ways I can channel all of this...anger. Other ways I can try to make a difference and atone for all the wrongs I couldn't right."

Finally, James found his voice. "I keep telling you...you don't need to atone for dick."

Steve smiled, slow and soft. "Pretty sure you'll be telling me that when we really are a hundred, so don't hold your breath."

As much as James wanted to argue, he knew he would always carry his own guilt for the crimes he committed for Hydra. He was the last person to pass judgement. "So we'll help each other through it like we've always done," he said. "Be each other's light in the darkness or however the saying goes."

"That reminds me...I've been meaning to...I'll be right back," Steve said, then pressed a kiss to James' lips and got up. "Don't go anywhere."

"Don't go...where are _you_ going?" James asked to Steve's retreating back, but stayed put as requested. In truth, he was feeling a little too lazy to move.

Steve was back less than a minute later, retaking his spot next to James. "Here," he said, and thrust a heavy piece of paper into James' hands. "I've, uh, been meaning to give this to you. Guess now's a good time."

"What is it?" James asked, taking the sheet, and looking down. He let out a soft, surprised breath. "Stevie, this is..." He looked up, humbled and awed. "This is beautiful."

Steve had drawn James lounging on a sofa maybe or a daybed, mostly naked and relaxed and _content_ , Steve stretched out beside him, head propped up on James' thigh, one hand wrapped possessively around it. The illustration was black and white, the way so many of Steve's drawings were, except for the flower crowns he and Steve were wearing, which were gorgeously colored, the blues and greens and reds so vividly bright they popped off the page. 

They looked... jeez, they looked so innocent and young, like woodland creatures or elves, maybe, something equally fey and mysterious. Both of them were clean-shaven — James had almost forgotten what he and Steve looked like without the scruff or the beard on their faces — and he wanted to ask why Steve had drawn himself this way, but was afraid of pushing. Steve had opened up so much of himself tonight already. Instead, he studied the bold lines and soft contours, stunned all over again by Steve's genius. 

Steve leaned in, close and warm, and wrapped an arm around James' waist. "Started it after our picnic the other week. I dunno, just seeing you lying there on the blanket among all the flowers and all of that green grass, it just...spoke to me."

James gave him a quick, close-mouthed kiss. "This is getting framed and going up in our bedroom," he said. "I hope you know that."

In fact, it belonged in a museum somewhere, but James was just as happy that he got to keep it to look at every day. 

Steve's cheeks turned pink. "Um, if that's what you want."

"I know I sound like a broken record, but you _have_ to know how talented you are." He set the paper on the table, fingertips tracing just above the drawing, careful not to get too close and smudge the lines. _This_ was what Steve had been meant for. What Steve's hands had been crafted for. Not war, not violence, but creation and art. And, as long as James lived, he would do everything in his power to make sure Steve got to have this.

Steve cupped his cheek, his smile soft, and oh-so intimate. "I've got an excellent muse."

"I love you," James murmured, drunk with it, and leaned forward to press his lips to Steve's, this kiss heated and carnal, licking at the taste of oak and berries and plum until he got to the essence of Steve under it all. Steve moaned in his mouth, firm yet gentle hands fisting in his hair, the bristles of his beard rubbing deliciously across James' skin. He wanted the burn everywhere, wanted the marks. Wanted, desperately so, those tangible reminders that he was _Steve's_ , that he belonged to someone of his own volition and his own free will.

"Love you too," Steve murmured back, shifting against him, already hard and straining against the thin material of his pants. James wanted him so much he thought he'd drown under the weight of it, pulling him into the ether. 

"Come to bed," he said, urging Steve to his feet. He wanted to take his time, wanted to explore every inch of Steve's body, and show him just how much James loved that they had this now, that they could be together like this, their bodies as closely entwined as their souls.

"God yes," Steve agreed, and walked James backwards down the dimly lit hallway until they got to the bedroom, both of them falling onto the mattress as one. They spent long minutes trading kiss after kiss, each one more heated than the last, each one filled with need and desire, each one a miracle. 

"Wanna suck you off so bad —"

"Jesus, Buck —" Steve jerked underneath him, his breath locomotive short. "Been dying to get my mouth on you all day..."

James sat up, dragged his hands down Steve's chest, fingers lingering on every bit of muscle, every indent of skin. Supple and warm and all his to taste and touch and have. "Well, I don't think there's any rule saying we can't suck each other off at the same time."

In fact, it sounded like the best damned idea James had ever had.

"Fuck, you're gonna be the death of me," Steve groaned, but drew James down to him for a hot, toe-curling kiss that belied his words.

They made quick work of getting undressed and lying on their sides, curling like parentheses around the other. James took a second to breathe Steve in, the heavy musky scent of him already so addictive and familiar, before licking his tongue around the head of Steve's cock. Steve let out a stuttering breath, and copied James' gesture, his tongue light and teasing around James' cock, and they'd barely started, but James was already so hard he was quivering, shaking, a needy mess.

Steve's dick was a heavy, warm weight in his mouth, gorgeous and thick, and James couldn't get enough, wanted to choke on every inch of him, wanted Steve to use James' body for his own pleasure. He timed his movements with Steve's, lost himself in the rhythm, the slick wet heat surrounding his own cock, the small greedy sounds Steve made with every bob of his head, the curl of Steve's tongue around the underside, dragging up and down, the friction unbearable and perfect. Despite all the practice he tried to get in every chance he could, James was still a novice at this, still learning, but he wanted, God, he wanted so much, wanted all of Steve's groans and sighs and bitten off moans that meant he was close.

He flicked his tongue across the slit, one hand loosely curling around the shaft to start a slow tempo that he knew from experience would drive Steve right to the brink, but not bring him off too quickly. Of course, it was harder than expected to stick with his game plan once Steve started matching him, his lips a tight suction as he started humming, the vibrations sending tiny shockwaves all throughout James' body. 

_Not yet not yet not yet_ , he chanted to himself, praying to every deity he could think of not to come too soon. He wanted this to last as long as possible, wanted to ride that edge until he physically _couldn't_ anymore.

He took a deep breath, blew out puffs of warm air along Steve's length, and, after a minute, it became easier to concentrate on making Steve feel good as he rode the pleasurable wave of having his cock sucked. By tacit agreement, they both slowed, lazy now, taking their time, concentrating on the pleasure of the moment, and nothing else. 

They moved together seamlessly, ebbing and flowing like the tide, both of them taking turns, mirroring each other's actions perfectly. Then Steve grabbed the back of James' thighs and started pushing at James' hips, wordlessly asking for more, and James was only too happy to oblige. He fed Steve more of his cock even as he took Steve deeper, the moans coming continuously now from both of them. 

He was so fucking close, balls heavy and aching, and if the small, needy sounds Steve was making were any indication, he was just as close as James, if not closer. James redoubled his efforts, focused on the head of Steve's cock, sloppy and wet, until he felt Steve's fingers dig into his thigh in warning. A moment later, the first bitter-hot splash hit the back of James' throat, and he pulled off, choking slightly as he swallowed, reaching back to catch Steve's free hand to hold on tight. And with that point of contact to anchor him to the here and now, to _Steve_ , James came himself, sighing Steve's name as Steve suckled him dry, milking his cock for every last drop of come. He would never get over how much Steve seemed to crave his taste, how much he seemed to love getting James off, giving him pleasure. 

"Yeah...uh...m'kay," Steve mumbled, after a few moments of the two of them lying still and catching their breath.

"Mmhmm," James agreed, too wrung out to move, even though he wanted nothing more than to plaster himself against all of Steve's warmth and bask in the satisfaction of a job well fucking done. They'd both earned every bit of their afterglow.

Thankfully, Steve seemed to read his mind, because he shifted around until they were facing each other, and Steve was pulling him in close, chest to chest. "I think we can call that a success," he stated, eyes bright, so vibrant he was practically luminous.

James smiled as he snuggled even closer, shivering as cool air hit his overheated skin. "Maybe we should test it again, just to make sure." 

"As many times as you want," Steve replied, and grabbed the blankets at the foot of the bed to throw over them. They spent a moment getting resettled, then James leaned in, parted Steve's lips with a flicker of his tongue, and Steve grabbed hold of James' hair, the kiss tasting of the two of them together. A perfect way to end a perfect night. 

***

[](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/azewewish/495704/44601/44601_900.jpg)

***

Steve woke two hours later to the soft creaking of the house settling, and the low hum of the cicadas outside. Beside him, Bucky slept on, his breaths nice and even, his mouth slightly parted, face lax, hair a riotous mess on the pillow. Still beautiful, even in slumber, still the best and purest thing in Steve's life. His home, in every definition of the word.

Once, the idea of it — a home, a family, a life — seemed foreign. Something that had died when he'd missed his chance with Peggy, that destiny forever beyond his reach. Instead, he'd given himself over to SHIELD and the Avengers, contented himself with the knowledge that, at least, he was still living up to the promise he'd made to Doc Erskine to do good. It had been easy — maybe too easy — to give himself over to the mission and the fight, the familiarity of it soothing the ache in his heart over what he'd lost. Easy to pretend he had enough in this new age and new life, that he didn't still see Bucky falling or hear Peggy's tearful pleas every time he gave himself a moment to think.

But then, he'd found Bucky again, and along with him, his sense of purpose. Suddenly, everything had been crystal-clear, his path laid out before him, and any quaint notion he'd ever had of peace had been cast aside in favor of this larger mission. All he could focus on was protecting the last link he had to his past, to the boy who'd only wanted to serve his country and make the world a better place. 

Only, Bucky hadn't cared about Steve's skillset, hadn't needed his protection or his help. Bucky hadn't needed anyone to rescue him or save him or avenge all of the wrongs that had been done to him. All he'd needed was for Steve to respect his autonomy and his wishes, to _be_ there the way they'd always been there for each other. 

Sometimes, it felt like the last few months they'd been together were just a dream, golden and ephemeral, a mirage conjured by his fevered imagination. There were still mornings when Steve half-expected to wake up back in his dingy room in Córdoba, the empty days and lonely nights stretching before him without end. What would he have become if Bucky hadn't showed up at his door? If Bucky hadn't offered him another path, given him the promise of a new life, a new purpose. 

He'd spent so much of his life railing against all of the injustices of the world — from the moment he was born, it felt like — that he'd never imagined a time when he'd stop. Hadn't imagined there'd be a time when he'd _want_ to stop. And part of him still longed for the single-minded clarity of a fight. But he'd made a promise to Bucky — he'd made a _choice_ — and it was time he let go of the man he used to be and embraced the man he wanted to become. 

He crept out from under the blanket, looking back to make sure he wasn't disturbing Bucky's rest, and stepped into the bathroom. The nitelight didn't provide much illumination, but it was more than enough, at least for him. And more than enough for him to complete his task.

He grabbed the clippers from the medicine cabinet and set them on the sink, taking a deep breath. Studied his reflection in the mirror, the longer hair, the hard set to his eyes, the beard that masked his chin and lips, effectively covering Steve Rogers, paragon of virtue. If he shaved it off, what would he see? _Who_ would he see? 

The blades gleamed silver, beckoning and repulsing him in equal measure. Such a small thing, something he'd done every day for years until a few months ago. No different than letting the dye in his hair fade out, really. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to pick up the clippers and turn them on.

All this time, he'd talked a good game. Pretended so hard to be good, to be different, to be that better man, the man he knew Bucky thought he was. But, when push came to shove, he was no better than the sort of coward he'd always hated, taking the easy road, afraid to take a leap of faith into the unknown. Using his hands as fists was so much easier, as natural as his heart beating out a steady rhythm against his ribcage. But this — _choosing_ to walk away from the bloodlust that dug under his skin and burrowed deep, from the rush of adrenaline he'd felt after every thrown punch, and the visceral need to avenge every wrong, real or imagined — he couldn't do it. Couldn't take that final, irrevocable step that meant he was ready to concede.

"Stevie, you okay?" 

Steve winced as the overhead light was switched on, bathing the room in its soft, fluorescent glow. He looked into the mirror at Bucky, yawning behind his hand as he leaned against the doorframe. Naked, the pink scarring on his chest and left shoulder a stark contrast to the nut-brown of his skin, darker from so many days working in the sun. His hair was hastily pulled back into a loose bun at his nape, laugh lines prominent around those remarkable eyes. He looked relaxed, at ease, so at home in his new life and new surroundings.

Steve loved him so much, every layer of their evolving relationship building and building, endlessly high, but still not enough to encapsulate the sheer mass of everything Steve felt whenever he so much as glanced in Bucky's direction. Still, Steve found himself falling more and more in love with Bucky, every minute of every day.

How could he _not_ want to give Bucky everything, when Bucky had given him everything from the very start? 

"I wanted to..." He gestured at his beard and then at the clippers. "But I can't even pick them up. Sad, huh?" he asked, shaking his head. "I guess I really am weak."

"You're not weak," Bucky quietly said, shuffling forward into the bathroom. "This is a big step."

Steve nodded, then shook his head again. His own reflection stared back at him, sallow and haunted. Who was he? The good man or the perfect soldier? 

"I keep thinking this would be giving up," he admitted, peeling away yet another shameful layer of his soul, knowing Bucky wouldn't judge him for his weakness. Knowing Bucky would understand just what it was he couldn't say.

If he shaved off the beard, if he got rid of this last vestige of the man who'd sworn revenge on everyone who'd hurt him and hurt Bucky, he would be closing a door on more than just the right to be Captain America again, more than stepping down as a soldier fighting the good fight. He'd have to say goodbye to Brooklyn, to the Barnes family, to Peggy, and that shimmering mirage of the life he could have had. _If only, if only_ , the refrain of his life. 

"You wouldn't be giving up, you'd be letting go," Bucky corrected, in an achingly soft voice. He rested his flesh hand on Steve's shoulder, the touch a comfort, a salve meant to heal the broken places deep inside him. "There's a difference."

Steve reached up, clung to Bucky's hand like a lifeline, needing the strength more than ever. This was real; _they_ were real. "You deserve better than anything I could offer you, you know. You deserve...someone like Thor, maybe, or...someone _good_."

Bucky shook his head. "Thor's great. And...part of me...well, I owe him a debt I'll never be able to repay. And maybe, if I hadn't been half in love with you since that night at the diner in Texas, who knows," he said, brushing light lips to Steve's nape. "But he's not any _better_ than you or me, Stevie. The things he's seen and done... He's responsible for far more damage than either of us combined. But even if he was this...I don't know...paragon of virtue or whatever, I don't care and it wouldn't matter. You told me once I deserve to have whatever I want, and what I want is _you_. You...this... _us_. It's everything."

"You never did have much sense," Steve sighed. "You have so many options, and you want a broken shell of a man who can't seem to let go of the past."

"There's this word in Portuguese — _saudade_ — I heard it once during my...well, lost years, for lack of a better phrase." Bucky's lips turned up in a humorless smile. "But it...the best way to translate it is, this profound sense of longing or...melancholy...for what used to be. That sense, that grief, you carry with you when someone dies, or when something changes forever."

"Okay," Steve said, lost. He had no idea why Bucky was telling him this, but he never wanted Bucky to feel like he had to hide anything, or keep anything secret. "And you feel this... _saudade_?"

Bucky glanced down at their hands, clasped together, close and comfortable, then back up at Steve. "I think both of us do," he replied.

"For?"

Bucky smiled again, this time tinged with sorrow. "For our old lives. For the men we used to be. For New York — Brooklyn — and the way _it_ used to be. For all of those little things we're never going to get back, no matter how long we live."

"Oh." Steve swallowed, his throat tight. Grief — dimmed of late, but never extinguished — rose like bile on his tongue.

Bucky squeezed his shoulder and turned Steve so they were facing each other. "What I'm trying to say is," he murmured, resting his forehead against Steve's, "it's _okay_ to mourn. You don't have to keep this bottled up inside you."

"Buck —" His voice broke, wet, lungs clogging with unshed tears.

"It's okay," Bucky repeated. "Just because we're building a new life doesn't mean I want to forget the old one, or not think about what we might've had. I don't want you to forget who we used to be or where we came from."

Steve nodded slightly, and tried to control his breath. He knew what Bucky was really doing — giving him permission to grieve — and a wave of love and gratefulness shuddered through him, overpowering and all-encompassing. "I love you so much," he whispered, scratchy and rough. Heartfelt. He'd never meant those words more than at this moment.

"I love you, too, Steve," Bucky told him, and it sounded like mercy.

He would never be worthy of this, no matter how many chances he had or how many lifetimes he lived. But he was selfish enough to grab on with both hands and never let go. He'd always been a little bit selfish where Bucky was concerned. 

Once, so long ago it really did seem like a dream, Steve had been remade to lead armies while Bucky had been reprogrammed to topple nations. And yet, the only safe haven either of them had ever found was is in each other's arms. When would it all be enough? Steve thought. When would the ledger finally be reconciled, when could he allow himself to believe that he could have this? That he could simply _be_ — be with Bucky, and be happy?

"I guess, what I'm really trying to tell you is, you don't have to do this," Bucky continued, nodding at the clippers. "Not to prove anything to me or yourself or the world or...it doesn't matter. Keep the beard, shave it, it doesn't change anything. Not for me."

And Steve could tell Bucky meant every word. That it didn't matter to him if Steve stayed the same angry, hurting man he'd been when Bucky first brought him here, if Steve never got used to the quiet, or sometimes still yearned for days long since passed. He didn't care that Steve still sometimes missed the War, missed the way Peggy had felt in his arms, missed being skinny and small and sickly, because back then, he'd had Bucky and his ma and the girls, and it had been enough. 

Bucky would still love him, would still want him, would still offer the shelter of his embrace and the warmth of his kiss. Bucky would still be here waiting if Steve left, would welcome him home with that quicksilver grin that would always remind Steve of summer afternoons in the sticky Brooklyn heat.

How could he _not_ give Bucky everything he was in return?

"I _want_ to." Steve wrapped his fingers around Bucky's, and held on tight. "Doing this...taking this step, Buck...this _means_ something." 

"I know," Bucky told him, with a small, tremulous smile. "But I gotta say, I'll miss it. Scruffy's a good look for you." He leaned in, murmured the next words against the shell of Steve's ear. "Not to mention, I kinda like the beard burn on my thighs."

Steve shivered, at both the mental image, and Bucky's proximity. Need swept over him, sudden and sharp, and so very welcome. "Then I'll grow it again starting tomorrow. But this one — it doesn't have a place here. Not...not in this...sanctuary." 

He wanted to explain further, wanted to tell Bucky that he got it. Finally, he understood what it was Bucky'd been trying to tell him for the past several months. That redemption for his past sins and failures wasn't a linear path, and wiping away his debt wasn't a zero sum game. He could have doubts and nightmares and wonder _what if_ and it still wouldn't change his decision to remain here. He didn't have to hide his rage or his darkness or any of his weaknesses, not from Bucky, not from himself. He could live with Bucky in the home they were building together, the foundation of it as strong as their bond, and it would be enough. He didn't need to prove to Bucky or the world or even himself that he'd earned the right to step down and retire, his war finally done.

 _Your only reason for being here is to just be_. Bucky's words from so many weeks ago echoed in Steve's mind, found a home in all of the crevasses of his soul, and filled it with hope. It was past time — Jesus, it was well past time — Steve listened.

Bucky swallowed, a telltale sheen in his eyes, then leaned in for a light kiss. "Thank you."

Steve handed him the clippers, his grip sure now, steady. "I want you to do it."

Bucky turned them over in his hand, then looked at Steve. "You sure about this?"

And looking back into the pure, unwavering gaze of the man who was his soulmate and his family, Steve felt a sense of peace and belonging come over him. Here was the one person who'd always seen him, flaws and all, and still loved him, both the killer and the saint. Here was the home he'd been seeking for as long as he could remember, only it wasn't a place, but a person. Steve was finally where he belonged, after so many lost years, adrift and alone.

 _I could be happy here. I_ am _happy here._ And the only thing he'd had to do to earn it was the simplest thing on the planet — unconditionally loving the man in front of him. They were together — to the end of the line or the end of the universe, in this life and all the ones after — a gift that Steve would cherish every hour of every day. He didn't have to be a good man or the better man or a moral beacon — he just needed to be Bucky's, to trust that Bucky was with him, no matter what the future held.

Easy enough to do, he thought. He'd been Bucky's his entire life.

"Yeah," he replied, and pulled Bucky close to him, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat. "I'm sure."

***

[](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/azewewish/495704/45283/45283_900.jpg)

**Author's Note:**

> All of the love and thanks ever to [Steph](http://stephrc79.tumblr.com), who continues to be a rockstar beta (and friend) of THE highest order - any remaining mistakes are all on me.
> 
> You can now find me on [Tumblr](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com/). :)
> 
> Jessie Lucid (lucidnancyboy) can be found on [Tumblr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/) and [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucidnancyboy/pseuds/Lucidnancyboy) and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/). Please give them a follow and let them know how much you love their art, because it is all truly amazing. <333


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